


Hall of Whispers

by Siff



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Captivity, M/M, Weird Bald Man, mental-torture, slightly AU, with serious mental problems
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-10
Updated: 2014-05-10
Packaged: 2018-01-24 06:20:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1594745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siff/pseuds/Siff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even years later, he would still wake up in the dead of night and hear them whisper in his ears...</p><p>Dead… cold and dead… coward… you're coward… they're all dead but you coward...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hall of Whispers

**Author's Note:**

> 12-04-2017 - Recently re-read this and was appalled by my own mistake. I brushed it up a bit and plan to do it with my other stories as well.

Five days, Treville had said. Five days and then they would move in and get them out, with or without the evidence.

Their cover was blown on the third day.

“I’m very disappointed in you, gentlemen,” said the Master, a tall bald man with piercing eyes. He watched them intensely, his hands hidden in the large sleeves of his robes. “I had such high hopes for the both of you.”

Aramis nearly laughed. Like they would ever serve him. The Master was insane. He fully believed he could help the crazy, heal their damaged minds. The king had granted him large sums of coin, eager to win the race against England in mental health. Reports telling disturbing rumors of the Master’s work had reached Paris, and the king had been urged by his advisers to look into the matter. The king refused to lose face, and to make sure the English crown didn’t hear of his own doubt, the Master’s ways were searched in secret.

Aramis and Athos had been sent to investigate the Master’s house, a large mansion standing in the shadow of a large hill. Masquerading as eager helpers, they had joined the Master’s workers, trying to figure out what the man did to the poor people he managed to get his hands on, and why so few of them returned to their families afterward. As Athos and Aramis had soon found out, his methods had nothing to do with healing.

Aramis was sure it would give him nightmares for the rest of his life.

“We are terribly sorry to disappoint you, Master,” said Athos, sounding anything but. He even matched a slightly bored expression to his words. How he did it with two men holding his arms behind his back, Aramis had no idea. The tight skin around the Master’s nose barely ringlet as he frowned.

“I do not appreciate sarcasm, my dear friend, only the truth.” He walked closer. “Who sent you? Who sent you to my humble home to interfere with the healing I provide?”

This isn’t healing! Aramis wanted to say but kept his mouth closed. He had seen the Master’s methods and he feared what he would do, should they say anything that would anger him more. The Master watched them carefully, his dark eyes going back and forth between them.

“No? Very well then.” The master looked at one of the men holding Athos. “Take them to the Hall of Whispers.”

They were taken downstairs to the cellar and then through a narrow tunnel that went deeper underground. The men holding them came with crude comments and did nothing to guide them safely through the tunnel. Aramis stumbled several times and smacked his elbow against the wall. He bit back a curse and instead focused on not falling on his face.

Finally, they stopped before a door. One of the men opened it and Aramis and Athos were pushed inside. The sound of their boots hitting stone-floor echoed around them. The door closed behind them and they heard a key turn in the lock. There were no lock or door handle on their side, and they instead began to look around, searching for another way out.

It was a large room made entirely of grey stone and lit by pale lanterns sitting high on the walls. It was long and narrow but high to the ceiling. And there were faces. Stone faces. Mad, distorted and twisted faces everywhere on the walls. Openmouthed and wide eyes they seemed to stare down at them, following their every movement.

“What is this?” Aramis asked, his voice echoing through the room.

_This… this… this…_

“I don’t know,” said Athos and looked around with slight interest, his voice joining Aramis’. “We must be underneath the mansion.” He placed a hand on the wall. “Made from stone,” he muttered. “How in the world did he managed that?”

_That… that… that…_

The echo of Athos word seemed to jump between the walls, continuing for much longer than he had thought possible. It already made him shift uncomfortable and gestured weakly to the walls. “What is the point of this room? To annoy us to death?”

_Death… death… death…_

Athos shrugged, looking around. His eyes lingered on the many faces. “Who knows.”

_Knows… knows… knows…_

_Death… death… death… dead…_

_Dead… knows the dead…_

Aramis looked sharply at Athos. “Did you say something?”

Athos stared at him in confusion. “No, why?”

_Why… why… why dead…_

Aramis swallowed. This was not good. He eyed the walls, looking for windows, opening, holes in the stone where the voices could come from. Athos seemed to hear it too. He looked around, his eyes searching the walls carefully, but like Aramis, he found nothing. Only the faces staring down at them.

“Let’s try and sleep,” said Athos. “Save our strength until Porthos gets here.”

_Sleep… sleep… sleep_

_Here… here… here… dead sleep here…_

“Yes,” said Aramis. He tried keeping his voice low, hoping the walls wouldn’t pick it up. He couldn’t stop staring at the stone faces. “Let's sleep.”

_Sleep… sleep… dead and sleep…_

They sat down on the cold floor, pressed up against each other from shoulder to hip. The was cold and they were only dressed in those loose trousers and short-sleeved tunics the master had all his people wear. They barely kept out the cold in the mansion, and the cold of the room soon made Aramis shake slightly.

“This is freezing,” he complained, breathing into his hands.

_Freezing… freezing… freezing…_

“Probably meant to break us. The cold, the voices.”

_Freezing… freezing… voices… voices… cold… cold dead voices…_

Aramis looked around. Where the hell did it come from? “You heard that, right?” he whispered, careful to keep his voice low, but the room still caught it.

_Right… right… not right…_

“Maybe we shouldn’t speak,” said Athos and crossed his arms over his chest.

_Speak… speak… speak… no right to speak…_

Aramis nodded. The sooner the echoes stopped the better.

They didn’t stop, and soon Aramis’ hand closed tightly around his cross.

 

. . .

 

The men finally came and took them from the room. By then, the echoes had crawled their way into Aramis ears, stills sounding in his head as they walked through the tunnel.

They were dragged back upstairs and Aramis saw through the windows that it was nighttime. How long had they been in the room?

They were walked to the Master’s chamber, where he waited for them.

“So,” he said and Aramis nearly sighed in relief as no echo followed his words. “Who sent you?”

None of them spoke and the Master smiled. “Very well. Put them back in the hall.”

Aramis tried not to struggle, he really did. A musketeer never showed fear, especially not in situations like this. But he couldn’t help it. The echoes had finally stopped and he never wished to hear them again. He dug his heels into the dirt as they were forced through the tunnel, only to have the push and drag him along without any care. Athos walked calmly beside him, head held high and with an expression of pure disinterest on his face. Aramis wondered if he had been the only one to hear the echoes.

The door locked behind them, and they were again in the stone room. Their boots echoed as they walked to the wall and sat down, pressed against each other like before. Aramis tried not to look at the faces. Instead, he kept his eyes on his hands.

“Two days, right?” he asked, daring to voice his question. “Two days and then Porthos will come.”

_Porthos will come… Porthos will come… Porthos will never come…_

“Yes,” said Athos in high, clear voice, like he was trying to drown out the echoes. “Two days and we will be out of here.”

_Here… here… here… stay here…_

“We shouldn’t talk,” said Aramis. “Let’s stay quiet.”

“Yes, quiet…”

_Quite… quiet… quiet…  you will stay quiet…_

Aramis pressed himself closer to Athos and was relieved when the other man wrapped his arm around his shoulder, bringing him closer.

The echoes continued.

No, not echoes. The sound didn’t behave like echoes. More like… more like whispers. That’s what the Master had said. The Hall of Whispers. Everything they said would echo back at them, but change, like the sound was alive. Like it whispered. Again, and again, and again, like the faces on the walls heard them and answered.

It was fine. They were fine. They just had to stay quiet, and for a while, it seemed to work. They said nothing and the echoes slowly died out. Very, very slowly.

Aramis tried to sit still; every movement caused some kind of sound, so he tried to sit as still as possible. Sleep wouldn’t come to him, no matter how tired he was. Instead, he leaned his head against Athos shoulder, trying to will his body to stop shaking.

Athos shifted beside him. “My leg is cramping,” he murmured apologetically, and moved to find a better position.

“It’s fine.”

_Fine… fine… fine… will never be fine…_

Aramis barely dared to ask. “You can hear them too, right?”

“Yes,” breathed Athos. “I hear them whisper.” He had figured it out as well then. The name of the hall. _What are they_? Aramis wanted to ask, but he didn’t dare.

_Whisper… whisper… hear them whisper… hear them scream… can you hear them scream…_

“I’m cold,” said Aramis and pressed closer to Athos.

_Cold… cold… cold screams…_

He barely resisted pressing his hands over his ears. He could do this. They were only whispers. His own words echoing back to him. He had said them, he could hear them. He could.

_Cold screams… cold dead screams…_

It was cold. How could it be this cold?

His eyes found the faces on the wall in front of them. He stared for a second at the twisted expressions. They were horrible. Ugly and scary as hell. It looked like people being tortured. Their faces screwed up in pain and silent screams. They looked frozen in pain, in death. Death like his friends in the woods.

No! Don’t go there!

He closed his eyes, but the faces seemed to follow him into the darkness. They stared at him. He blinked but it only made it worse. They all looked at him. All of them. Dead. Killed. Lying cold and with open eyes. Marsac was among them, alive but his face was twisted too. Horrible twisted. He stared at Aramis, his mouth moved but no sound left him.

“Aramis?”

Aramis jerked out his own thoughts and looked at the dead faces of his fallen comrades to Athos. For a second he swore Athos bore Marsac’s twisted face.

“Aramis, do you smell smoke?” Athos asked. His voice shook, and it wasn’t from the cold. Aramis frowned, his mind seemed dull and slow, and Athos question was odd, but his friend’s pale face and wide eyes made him look very vulnerable. So, he smelled the air around them.

“No,” he said. “there is no smoke, Athos.”

_Smoke… smoke… there is smoke…_

Athos swallowed nervously, staring straight ahead. “I just thought… I thought…”

_Thought… thought… not what you thought…_

“What do you see?” Aramis carefully asked, oddly glad for the distraction from the faces. Athos licked his lips and shook his head, his eyes staring at something across the room

“I can’t…”

_Can’t… can’t… can’t…_

Aramis gently took Athos hand in his. If he saw Savoy then he could only wonder what his friend saw and heard. “I understand.”

_Understand… understand… can’t stand… can’t stand you…_

 

. . .

 

It was night again when they stood before the Master. “So, will you answer my questions now?”

Exhausted they stood before him. Aramis felt his legs shake and was sure he would be on his knees had the men not held him upright. Beside him Athos was pale and shaking, his hands constantly twitching towards his chest.

None of them said anything.

“To the hall then.”

This time Aramis fought. He fought like a man possessed. So did Athos. They kicked and punched and twisted in the men’s hold, but nothing worked. Their weakened state did nothing to help and the door was locked securely behind them once more.

He tried to endure, he really did. He said his prayer, clenching his cross until his palm bleed. He did well for a while but the faces were everywhere. His comrades, Marsac, and soon Porthos and Athos joined in. Twisted, cold and dead. A bone-deep fear seized him.

“No, no they are not dead!” he shouted at the wall, leaving all sense behind. They stared down at him, eyes big and hateful.

_Dead… dead… they are dead… dead and gone…_

“Shut up, shut up, shut up!” he yelled. “They are alive!”

_Alive… alive… only one alive… only coward alive… only cowards are alive…_

“No, no, no, no.” He crouched down and covered his ears with his hands. He closed his eyes and began to mutter. Not loud, but just enough so it drowned out the voices. He wasn’t a coward. He wasn’t. He had been hurt, he hadn’t meant for them to die. He wasn’t a coward. He repeated the words, again and again, not hearing Athos as he tried to say something to him.

Finally, a hand on the neck of his tunic pulled his face up. He still covered his ears. The faces swirled around him.

_Coward… coward… you’re a coward…_

“Aramis, Aramis listen to _me_. Don’t listen to them.” Athos face was right before him, twisted and scary. Aramis closed his eyes.

_Listen to them… listen to them coward…_

Was he? Was he a coward?

Athos shook him violently. “Aramis, listen to me! It’s not real. This is real.” Athos dug his fingers into Aramis arms, clenching so hard it drew a pained gasp from Aramis. The short, sharp stab of pain drowned out all voices. But only for a second.

_Coward… coward… a real coward… you are a real coward…_

Athos clenched his arms again. “Aramis, Porthos will be here soon. Stay with me, please.”

Aramis shook his head. No, Porthos was dead. Just like the others. Lying dead in the wood. They were all dead, except for him, the coward. Their faces looked down at him.

“Aramis…” Athos said, his voice sounding so far away. Was Athos dead too? “Aramis!” his face was pulled up and he stared into a twisted expression of a face. “I’m sorry for this.”

The punch sent him into the darkness. Blessed, silent darkness.

 

. . .

 

Athos flexed his hand, trying to make the pain last. Then he carefully gathered Aramis up and sat back down, holding his friend's limp body close to his own. He gently stroked the curly hair away from Aramis’ forehead. He looked so calm when he wasn’t clawing at his own hair or biting his lip. It still bled and he wiped it away with his thumb.

The pain in his hand didn’t last long.

_Murderer… murderer… disgusting murderer…_

He closed his eye and hugged Aramis closer. He could do this. For Aramis.

_Murderer…. murderer… hang… do you see her hang… you will hang… they will hate you… they will hang you… hate and hang you…_

The low sound of a rope creaking joined the voices.

“Hurry up, Porthos,” he whispered and buried his face in Aramis soft hair.

 

. . .

 

They were saved, in the end. The doors to the stone hall opened with a bang and in came Porthos followed closely by d'Artagnan. The noise was deafening, and Athos copied Aramis and curled around himself on the floor, covering his ears.

They had to be carried outside, both of them too weak from hunger and thirst. Aramis refused to remove his hands and kept muttered about faces and snow. Athos wasn’t much better, but d'Artagnan got him onto his feet while Porthos lifted up Aramis into his arms.

They stopped in the main hall where Treville stood beside the Master, who was flanked by armed musketeers. He didn’t seem particularly bothered by them.

Treville looked relieved to see his men alive, but his eyes noticed the bruise on Aramis cheek and his split lip and turned on the Master with fury on his face. “You said they weren’t harmed.”

The Master looked amused. “I assure you, Monsieur Treville, any physical damaged is… self-inflicted. Neither my men nor I have laid hand upon your musketeers.” His smile showed he spoke the truth, or at least believed it to be the truth himself.

 

. . .

 

From a professional view, the mission was barely a success. Treville and Athos brought the report to the king shortly after their return to Paris, and the funding to the Master and his ‘healing’ stopped overnight. The man himself was gone when the Musketeers returned to the mansion to arrest him, having left behind his people and victims. Even the most seasoned musketeers had trouble stomaching the horrors they found in passages and rooms beneath the earth, and they realized that the shaking, pale forms of their returned friends had actually been the result of the least of the tortured methods the mansion hid. 

 

. . .

 

The faces haunted his dreams.

They couldn’t explain what had happened, they barely knew it themselves. Athos seemed to find a cure rather quickly for whatever he had seen, temporary as it was. At first it was wine, but apparently, years of drinking had hardened him beyond normal human capacity, and he turned to brandy, and then fine spirits. Aramis had tried it too, but it merely dropped him into sleep faster than normal, and that was where the faces waited for him.

Marsac’s face, Porthos’ and then Athos’. D'Artagnan and Treville soon joined them too. Dead and twisted, and with cold, staring eyes. He woke at least a dozen times a night, the whispers still in his ears.

Dead… cold and dead… coward… you’re coward… they’re all dead but you coward… cold and dead… you should be dead…

He begged Porthos to stay with him, forgetting every ounce of pride he had. He begged him to stay, to speak, to drown out the voices as Aramis curled up in his bed, afraid of closing his eyes. If he happened to slip into sleep he would always wake with a startle, searching his room in panic until he finally saw Porthos sitting in the chair by the bed. His face warm, and normal, and alive. Even in sleep.

Somehow, over time, Porthos moved from the chair and into his bed. It was easier to sleep with his strong arms around him, a constant reminder than Porthos was alive and well.

One evening they found Athos sitting by his usual table in the tavern, staring blankly at his dagger, and they had taken him home with them. They had all managed to lie down in Aramis bed, pressed closely together.

Sometimes Aramis woke screaming and shaking, and the two others would hold him until he calmed down. Sometimes Athos woke, but he always did so in silence, lying frozen and biting his lip to keep himself from making even the smallest sound. They rarely woke when he did, but when they managed to, they would touch him gently. Take his hand and carefully pry his clenching fingers apart, and speak softly until he calmed down.

He never told them what he saw or head, but they still had pretty good idea what it was.

**Author's Note:**

> Just re-read the Serpent's Gift by Lene Kaaberbøl, and had to borrow this little part of the book. I thought it fitted pretty well with Aramis and the Savoy massacre, and the survivors guilt he must have. I hope I have tagged this one probably, since many found The Devils Dance uncomfortable to read without warning.
> 
> Also, I have done minimal research, but from what I found, there wasn´t really focus on mental problems that time in France (or many other places). It came about fifty years later in Germany and then in England. My info can be wrong, but this is fanfic-world, right?
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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